Ice Chest

by J. D. Rhoades

  “Lawn jockeys?” Clarissa said in disbelief. “Really?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Tommy said. He turned to look at where Clarissa was staring. He laughed. “Hey, Carlo,” he said. “Check this shit out.”

  “Fuckin’ hilarious,” Carlo said. As he spoke, the front door swung open and a man stepped out. He was enormously fat, his belly straining at the Jose Cuervo T-Shirt he wore and at the waistband of his giant cargo shorts. Tattoos covered both arms. The man’s hair was thinning on top, but long and gathered into a frizzy ponytail in back. It was bleached blond, in contrast with his dark goatee and mustache. He was holding a Budweiser tall boy in one hand. The other held the leash of a huge black mastiff who was regarding the interlopers in his driveway with baleful suspicion.

  “Welcome, strangers,” the fat man said. His voice was incongruously high, almost feminine. His Southern accent was as thick as the humid air outside. The dog’s growl indicated he didn’t share the sentiment. “Hush, Jubal,” the man said.

  “Howdy,” Carlo said. “Are you…uh…”

  “Bo Wentworth,” the man said. He leaned over and put the beer on the porch, grunting with the effort of straightening back up and extending his hand.

  Carlo took it carefully as the dog bristled. “Nice dog,” he said.

  “No he ain’t,” Wentworth said. He turned to Clarissa and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “So this is Clarissa Cartwright.”

  She straightened up with as much dignity as she could muster. He was giving her that same sizing-up look, this time with extra sleaze. “I’ll give you a hundred thousand bucks,” he said. “For one night of dancin’. You don’t even have to do the lap dances. Just the stage. You can pick the club.”

  She felt the blood rising to her face. “Fuck you.”

  The dog, sensing the hostility in her tone, growled louder. He began to pull at the leash. Wentworth just shrugged. “Thought I’d make the offer,” he said without rancor. He stepped aside. “C’mon in.”

  They preceded him through the door, Tommy going first, then Clarissa, then Carlo. Wentworth followed. When Clarissa turned around, she saw the fat strip club owner closing the door. He was holding the empty leash in one hand. “Jubal’s outside. Patrollin’,” he said to Clarissa, “and he don’t much like smart-mouthed women.” He turned to Carlo and Tommy. “I got a guest room upstairs,” he said. “We can stash her there. You guys want a beer?”

  “Nah,” said Carlo. “We’re good.”

  “I could use one,” Tommy said.

  Carlo gave him a look. “I said we’re good.”

  “Aiiight,” Wentworth said. “Follow me.”

  “After you,” Carlo said to Clarissa. She gritted her teeth, but followed the man’s huge bulk up the stairs to her luxurious cell.

  GARETH GANE hadn’t slept well for a long time.

  At first, he’d thought his plan foolproof: substitute fake jewels for the real ones on the Fantasy Bra, then pocket the real items to be sold off, one by one, over time in order to finance his retirement. It helped in the deception that the bra had to be kept under wraps, protected from any contact, except for the very few times it was brought out under the bright lights that would make even cheap jewels look good. A few moments in the spotlight, then back into the box, hidden away, with only photographs to let people know what Enigma had…or in this case, didn’t have.

  It had seemed like such a good plan, but as it turned out, Gane was too nervous to be a very good criminal. Thoughts of being discovered, caught, imprisoned, and disgraced haunted him. What would happen to his family? What would happen to him in prison? He’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, his guts knotting and twisting as a thousand nightmare scenarios boiled in his head. Fortunately for him, the people he worked with took his nervousness and paranoia as the natural reaction of a man entrusted with something so obscenely valuable.

  Every now and then, he’d go to the safe in his home office where he kept the real jewels in a locked strongbox and stand there looking at it, afraid to even open it. It seemed a shame to him that a man who was sitting on a fortune in gemstones was afraid to touch or even look at them. A man in his position, he’d always thought, should be able to sit in his lair, running the stones through his fingers, gazing at them with avarice in his eyes and cackling evilly, but he was afraid his wife or one of his children would come in and discover him. He never had been able to come up with an explanation that would cover evil cackling. This whole life of crime wasn’t nearly as much fun as he’d thought it would be.

  And now, the Fantasy Bra—or actually, its facsimile—had been stolen, taken by God knows who. That was something he hadn’t factored in to his plan, a wild card that could get played so many different ways. Eventually, the thieves would discover the fakery—and what then? It’s not like they were in a position to complain. His best bet, Gane thought, was to play up the outrage, blame everything on the ineptitude of the security people (soft-pedaling the fact that he was the one who’d hired them), and help process the insurance claim. Enigma would get their money, based on the completely legitimate appraisal done by a reputable jeweler before Gane had paid a much less reputable one to perform the substitution. Enigma would commission a new Fantasy Bra for next year. Gane would sell off the stones he had, not too many at once so as not to draw attention. Everyone would live happily ever after.

  He soon found out how wrong he was.

  It was the day after the robbery, and Gane was packing his bags in his suite at the Imperial. He’d given his statement to local law enforcement, then again to the FBI. He’d made a dozen or more appearances on various news media, talking about his hopes that Clarissa Cartwright would be returned safely and denying that she could possibly have been involved (while subtly casting enough doubt as to his belief in her innocence to cover himself if she did turn out to be an accomplice). There was nothing left for him to do in Atlanta. He was ready to go back to his life in New York, where he planned to hang on, hunker down, and wait for this to blow over.

  The room phone rang.

  Gane frowned. Anyone with any reason to contact him knew his cell number. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Gane,” a chipper female voice said, “this is the front desk calling. There’s a message for you.”

  “Well?” he said impatiently. “What is it?”

  The desk clerk was unfazed by the tone. “It’s in a sealed envelope, sir. The person who dropped it off said it was only to be opened by you personally.”

  Gane felt a tightening in his chest. “Who…who dropped it off?”

  “I don’t know, sir…it seemed to be…” The tone turned frosty. “…some sort of street person.”

  The luxurious suite suddenly seemed much smaller. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he said in a choked voice.

  The elevator ride down to the lobby seemed to take forever. At the fifth floor a group of laughing, chattering tourists got on. Their bright and happy voices made Gane want to scream. They spilled out into the lobby as Gane walked to the front desk like a man facing a firing squad. “Gareth Gane,” he said. “You had a message for me?”

  “Yes sir,” the desk clerk said. She handed over an envelope. He took it and stared down at it dumbly. He made out the words “MR. GAIN” in crude block letters. “Thank you,” he said. He carried the envelope over to one of the couches scattered across the lobby. He stared at it for a few moments, noting the fingerprint smudges on the outside. Finally, he used a manicured fingernail to slit the top. He pulled a simple white index card out. Printed on the card in the same crude block letters was the message: ALL THAT GLITTERS ISN’T GOLD IS IT. OR JEWLS. WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT ENIGMAS SECRET. NO COPS. A phone number followed.

  Gane took a deep breath. The honest thing to do would be to turn the message over to the FBI. But he’d crossed over the line a while back. He looked around for a moment. No one seemed to be watching. He slid the card into the jacket of his suit coat and headed for the
elevator.

  “COME ON, kid,” Paul Chirelli said. “Get your head in the game.”

  They were cruising the streets of Little Five Points, looking for the address they’d found on Branson’s phone. At this time of the morning, a few bakeries and coffee shops were opening, but for the most part, the streets were deserted.

  Mario turned from looking out the window. “I’m fine, Paul.” But inside, he wondered. He felt all twisted and wrong inside. He knew Clarissa didn’t love him. He knew, in fact, that she most likely hated him now. But something inside him wouldn’t let her go. It was better to think of having her near, hating him, than it was to think she was gone out of his life forever. Some small part of him realized just how fucked up that was, but a much bigger part of him didn’t care.

  “I think this is the place,” Moose said from behind the wheel. “That big house over there.” He slowed the big limo. “There ain’t no place to park, though.”

  “Double park it,” Paul ordered. “We won’t be long.” Moose pulled the car over. “You want me to wait…” But Mario and Paul were already out of the car and headed up the walk.

  Mario banged on the outside door. He rolled and popped his neck while he waited, trying to get his game face on, the intimidating one that made people want to make him happy. But what he saw when the door opened froze him in his tracks.

  “Jesus Christ,” he heard Paul say in a choked voice. In all the years he’d known Paul Chirelli, Mario had never heard fear in the older man’s voice. He heard it now.

  “Can I help you?” the apparition in the door said. It took Mario a moment to realize that the voice was female. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t take his eyes off that face.

  At first glance, what he was looking at was familiar: white greasepaint, bushy wig, exaggerated eyebrows, big red nose. But there was something so subtly, disturbingly off about the whole getup, something so terribly wrong, that it sent a shiver of revulsion down into Mario’s gut.

  Now he knew why people were afraid of clowns.

  “Loog, feddows,” the appalling harlequin said, the voice rendered a little nasal by the red ball fastened over the nose, “Id’s bed a log dight. We answered all you guys’ quedtions…” The clown stopped. “Waid a biddit,” she said. “You ared’t the cops.” She reached up and pulled the fake nose away. “Who the hell are you?”

  The sudden change in her demeanor broke the spell. Mario let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Are you Stephanie?”

  “No,” the girl in the door said. “She’s finally asleep. And I’m not waking her up. She’s spent half the night answering questions from detectives and I’ve got a gig that starts in an hour, so you two need to…HEY!” she cried out in outrage as Paul shoved the door, making her stumble backwards. He stepped into the front hallway. Mario followed, closing the door behind him.

  “Wake her up,” Mario said. “We want to talk to her about her boyfriend.”

  “NICE NEIGHBORHOOD,” Zoe said from the back seat as they cruised the slowly awakening streets.

  “One of those places I keep telling myself I’m going to come back to,” Hermione agreed, “when I have time.”

  Zoe nodded. “And the time never comes, right?”

  “Sad but true.”

  “Someone tell me if we’re getting close to the address,” Chunk said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. He was driving. Despite the short rest, he was tired and irritable, but he didn’t want to take it out on his companions.

  “Will do,” Zoe said. “You get hold of those detectives?”

  Chunk shook his head. “I got voice mail. I left them the names of Rafe Valentine and L.B. Gordon and what you found out about their connection with this Branson kid. Maybe they’ll follow up on it.”

  Zoe snorted. “And maybe I’ll be made Queen of the fucking May.”

  Hermione glanced down at her phone. “We should be coming up on it…”

  Zoe pointed. “Hey, look.”

  Chunk looked. There was a long black limo double parked in front of a large Victorian house. Someone was pacing up and down on the nearby sidewalk, glancing from time to time at the house.

  “Is that…” Chunk began.

  “It sure is,” Zoe said. “Moose Cantone.”

  “And if he’s out here…” Chunk said.

  “It’s better than even odds that Mario Allegretti’s somewhere around,” Hermione finished.

  Chunk pulled the car up behind the limo. “Probably inside. With that girl.” He had a bad feeling about what that could mean.

  Zoe’s brow furrowed. “But why?”

  “He’s doing the same thing we are,” Hermione said. “Looking for the people who took Clarissa.”

  Zoe laughed sharply. “So we’re on the same side as a bunch of dirtbags from the Jersey mob.” She shook her head. “Funny world.”

  Chunk was scowling. “Depends on your definition of funny.” Whatever common interest he may have had with Mario Allegretti and his people, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to approve of their methods. He got out of the car. Behind him, he heard Hermione’s and Zoe’s doors open. “Stay back,” he growled over his shoulder as he headed toward Moose Cantone.

  “Ain’t happenin’, partner,” he heard Zoe say.

  “Likewise,” Hermione’s voice came from behind him.

  Chunk didn’t have time to argue. Cantone had stopped his pacing on the sidewalk and was standing by the limo, his arms crossed across his chest. His “don’t fuck with me” expression made Chunk itch to do just that. He stopped a few feet away from the big blond thug.

  “What are you doing here, Cantone?” Chunk said in a low voice.

  Cantone had apparently decided that “Jersey wise-ass” was the correct mode to adopt. “Everybody’s gotta be somewhere, dude.”

  He’d made a bad choice. Chunk’s irritation, fueled by fatigue, boiled over and he threw a right cross that connected solidly with the big man’s jaw and knocked him staggering backwards off the curb to sag against the limo. Moose slumped for a moment, then came back up onto the curb, fists clenched. “You black son of a…”

  “GENTLEMEN!” Hermione Starr’s voice had the irresistible whip of command in it. She shoved herself in between Chunk and Moose, holding out a hand to either side to keep them apart. Both men stopped, momentarily halted by surprise. Hermione seized the moment. “I know emotions are running high,” she said in a calm, reasonable voice. “But let’s keep our eyes on the prize, shall we?” Chunk stepped back, breathing hard, while Moose looked at Hermione, blinking in confusion. “Clarissa, Moose,” Hermione said to him in the voice of a patient teacher talking to an idiot child. “We want to find the people who took her.”

  Moose shook his head to clear it. It didn’t seem to work. “What?”

  Hermione Starr was a patient woman, but she too was clearly reaching her limit. “We’re trying to find out where Clarissa is, Moose. Isn’t that why you and Mario are here?”

  Chunk watched Moose’s face. He imagined he could almost see the thoughts percolating slowly through the man’s square skull. “Uh. Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “He’s lying,” Zoe murmured, low enough for only Chunk to hear.

  “Yeah,” Chunk said. “I got that.” He turned back to Moose. “Just stay here,” he ordered.

  “Like hell,” Moose growled. He tried to shove Hermione out of the way. She made a quick movement, and suddenly Moose was pressed face first against the limo, his left hand wrenched painfully behind him and pulled up to the small of his back.

  “Bitch,” he yelped, his shock and outrage causing his voice to rise to a high squeak. “Let me OW OW OW!”

  She leaned forward to speak into his ear. “Just relax, darling. It only hurts when you try to resist me.” Moose started to say something, but a slight movement of Hermione’s wrist turned whatever he was planning to say into a keening whimper. She turned to Chunk. “Why don’t you and Zoe go see to Mario
while Mr. Cantone and I get better acquainted?”

  “You sure?” Chunk said.

  “Oh, I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble,” she purred. “Will we, sweetheart? You want to be a good boy for me, don’t you?” Her hand moved again, almost imperceptibly.

  “Yes.” Moose’s voice cracked with agony as he said it. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  “Okay.” He turned and headed for the front door.

  After a moment, Zoe fell in beside him. He saw that she’d fetched her purse from the car and was slinging it on her shoulder. “Holy shit, partner,” she said. “I think I’m in love. You don’t hook up with that cougar, I just might.”

  He drew up short and looked at her. She grinned. “Okay, not really. But I think your life is about to get really interesting.”

  “It’s interesting enough.” He knocked on the front door.

  GANE LOOKED at the phone in his hand, then at the message on the hotel room’s desk, then back at the phone. Finally, he took a deep breath and dialed the number.

  It rang twice before someone picked up. “Mr. Gane, I presume?”

  The voice had a pronounced southern accent, with a sheen of oil atop it that made Gane queasy just to hear it. “This is Gareth Gane.”

  “I think we have some business to discuss that will be to our mutual benefit.”

  He swallowed. “I’m listening.”

  “First things first,” the voice said. “I need to know no one is listening in on our little confab. I believe private business should be kept private, don’t you agree?”

  Gane tried and failed to keep his voice from shaking. “I do. And no one is listening. I’m on my cell phone. In my hotel room.”

  “Good, good. But we need to be sure. I would be most appreciative if you would go downstairs, step out into the street, and call again. And Mr. Gane?”